The Book of Memory

Turn me loose and let me be

Young once more and fancy free;

Let me wander where I will,

Down the lane and up the hill,

Trudging barefoot in the dust

In an age that knows no 'must,'

And no voice insistently

Speaks of duty unto me;

Let me tread the happy ways

Of those by-gone yesterdays.

Fame had never whispered then,

Making slaves of eager men;

Greed had never called me down

To the gray walls of the town,

Offering frankincense and myrrh

If I'd be its prisoner;

I was free to come and go

Where the cherry blossoms blow,

Free to wander where I would,

Finding life supremely good.

But I turned, as all must do,

From the happiness I knew

To the land of care and strife,

Seeking for a fuller life;

Heard the lure of fame and sought

That renown so dearly bought;

Listened to the voice of greed

Saying: 'These the things you need,'

Now the gray town holds me fast,

Prisoner to the very last.

Age has stamped me as its own;

Youth to younger hearts has flown;

Still the cherry blossoms blow

In the land loused to know;

Still the fragrant clover spills

Perfume over dales and hills,

But I'm not allowed to stray

Where the young are free to play;

All the years will grant to me

Is the book of memory.

                                                                                         by Edgar Albert Guest